Boxer Carlos Adames Is Making His—Very Large—Family Proud

The question tumbles forth, with interruptions aplenty owing to awkward phrasing, stutters and pauses. Still, it’s necessary to ascertain a truth as unfathomable as anything in sports.

The question, posed to Carlos Adames, a bruising middleweight contender whose interim world title bout is scheduled for Saturday: “Well, I just wanted … to start here … with, um, his number of siblings. This is … kind of an unfair question. But I’m, well, I’m curious. Can he name all 34?”

Adames cackles through the Zoom screen. Then, through an interpreter, he lists his brothers and his sisters … and more brothers … and more sisters … and even more brothers … and even more sisters. He begins this exercise 56 seconds into the recording of the interview. He finishes, having named every sibling in his brood of staggering size, more than eight minutes in.

The last time he tallied up his siblings happened years ago, at age 15 or 16, Adames says. He wonders whether he should make a list, in case someone asks again. But also so he will never engage in that particular exercise again.

A full account of his family tree arrives via text message the next day. Voilà.

Sisters: Fior, Sonia, Paola, Chi, Santa, Marisol, Katiuska, Yuyu, Maria Elisa, Miguelina, Maria, Irene, Gleiny, Morita, Olga, Mami and Maria. (Yes, there are two Marias. Just imagine shopping for this family at Christmas!)

Brothers: Ángel Santiago, Tololo, Nuno, Diego, Máximo, Chimo, Pichardo, Sánchez, Joe, Milsiade, Zabulón, Manuel, Jonah, Diogenes, Alberto, Yonely and Chico. (Imagine the living room wrestling matches!)

Members of Adames’s family wear shirts supporting him.

Courtesy of Adames family

“I fight for my family,” Carlos says. “I want to accomplish my dreams not just for me but for them as well.”

Under typical circumstances, that sentiment can come across as clichéd, deployed by any athlete in any sport, but especially in boxing, where familial ties run deep. These, of course, are not typical circumstances, so they fashion fight-for-my-family more into an impossible task. How many victories would that take? How many knockouts? Belts? Could a champion compile the greatest career in boxing history, even, and fulfill the hopes and dreams of a family that can almost fill an entire active NFL game-day roster?

Adames cannot possibly answer those questions. But the pride of Dominican boxing can say this: He’s trying to find out. Since turning pro in 2015, the boxer has won 22 of his 23 bouts, registered 17 knockouts and fought for interim world titles in two divisions with one win and one loss.

His last two fights—a majority decision win over elite Sergiy Derevyanchenko in December 2021 and a vicious knockout of Juan Macias Montiel last year—marked a breakout of sorts. Or a climb back into what was obvious all along. The KO netted Adames, 29, the WBC interim world middleweight crown, not to mention his bout this Saturday, against former unified champion Julian Williams at the Armory, in Minneapolis, on Showtime. (Disclaimer: I do script writing for the network). He is favored to win and expects to win, bolstering career momentum, for, well, more people than he’d care to name … again.

“My time will come where I will show the world that I’m the best middleweight,” Adames says.

They’re fitting, those outsized ambitions. Adames long ago adjusted to life in a family so large that descriptors inevitably undersell. The Adames clan is huge, massive, the family tree weighed down by all the branches and their branches and their branches-branches—all lending new meanings to familiar familial phrases like “all in” and “all in the family.” Adames remains proud of its size, but not so proud he cannot understand how unusual that size is. Or laugh at the enormity.

“Whenever I meet somebody who’s bragging about having six or seven siblings, I’m like, ‘What the f---!’” he says. “‘I got 34, bro! You got nothing on me!’”

Then, the twist. “But my dad doesn’t even have the record. And it’s not close. There’s someone in my town that has 50 kids.”

Must be some sort of enhanced water in those pipes. Laced with Viagra? A magic fertility drug? Adames cannot answer that, either. He was born in Comendador, in the southern half of the Dominican Republic, roughly 69 miles northeast of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. That he was born—at all, in that family—is the least improbable thing about him.

His father, Santiago Adames, worked as a farmer in the early part of Carlos’s childhood. He had more than one romantic partner over the years, including Carlos’s mother, Alta Gracia Contreras, who birthed Santiago a full 11 children. Collectively, that number swelled, until it hit 35, a rangy mix of siblings and half siblings who sometimes lived together but always spread all over town. Adames has 17 siblings of each gender. (He thought there were significantly more male siblings than female, but not upon review. Perhaps it only seemed that way. After all, of his four children—“just getting started!” Dad might say—three are boys.)

Carlos is No. 33 in a brood of 35. Think about that. He has 32 older siblings! Imagine the unwanted advice! But if dozens picked on him throughout childhood, he’s not going to say that now. He is the family’s boxing champion. Weakness is absent from his DNA.

“It’s not my older siblings that can make my life difficult,” he says. “I make their lives difficult! Especially my sisters.”

One older brother, Ángel, prodded Carlos onto this career path. Ángel was a boxer, an elite prospect who dreamt of Olympic glory. With little in the way of resources, let alone enough cash to buy a car, let alone 36 or 37 cars, he often traveled by motorcycle to work or elsewhere. But one afternoon, after borrowing a bike, he ran into some horses. The crash fractured both of Ángel’s arms, ruined both his hands, and the combination ended his fighting career that afternoon. But Ángel pushed Carlos and another younger brother into boxing starting, for Carlos, at age 12.

Oddly enough, in a family that must fight for everything—bathroom space, bedrooms, clothes, food—only three members of the Adames clan have boxed. Ángel instilled discipline, training his brothers, helping them ascend to heights like those his crash had interrupted and beyond. As Carlos improved under Ángel’s tutelage, he earned a nickname locally, El Caballo Bronco, because he was strong and fast and wild. Other Adames siblings chose all manner of professions: doctor, nurse, lawyer, carpenter. One even works for Motoconcho, which is like Uber but on a motorcycle.

All trace their lineage back to the same man, Santiago, their father and their beacon, until the day he died in 2015. Hence another awkward question.

“Um, there’s no easy way to say this, but … what’s up with your dad?”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Adames answers. “My dad liked to live life to the fullest. He may have made it harder than before, I’ll grant you that. But this was his way of living.”

He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “Or maybe, there is a second option: He just really liked women!”

Adames turns momentarily serious. Anyone can have enough sex to bring that many children into the world, he says. But the difficult part is also the obvious one. Having that many kids is hard. Having that many kids morphs regular-hard into brushing-your-teeth hard. To feed and clothe and bathe and sleep—not to mention entertain, teach, regulate emotions, explore, care for, improve health—that many children qualifies as either heroic or foolhardy. Depends on the parents. And on the kids.

“My dad never made any of us 35 feel neglected or ignored,” Adames says. “He put the same discipline in every one of us. Other parents may have seven or 10 kids, and they don’t pay any attention to them. My dad was always there for us. He did everything in his power.”

Santiago did that while transitioning from farming to politics. He ran for office and won a mayoral election. Carlos describes the position as similar to a senator in the U.S. Or a combination of mayor-senator. His father loved that city, home to some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. He improved the lives of locals—with his elite ability to find and maintain balance, in all likelihood—and still helped Carlos become an elite amateur.

Carlos climbed: 273–7 amateur record, gold medals in international youth tournaments, knockout after knockout in the pros. He struck from both sides, with power and precision. Hooked up with a respected trainer in Bob Santos. Became a contender at super welterweight, then middleweight. Engaged in ferocious, action-packed fights. Learned from his lone defeat. Applied those lessons in pivotal victories.

Through it all, he carried the DR with him, hoping to imprint boxing with the baseball-like fever that has long existed in his homeland. He also carried those siblings (and his dad). He will bring all with him to Minneapolis, to fight for another title, while many of his many siblings gather back home in the DR.

It should surprise no one, but the Adames siblings and their half siblings go bigger than big every time Carlos fights. Only one of them will be at the bout against Williams in person. But most will attend another viewing party, spread out among the space available, jammed atop couches, chairs and scant open floor space. They’ll watch their brother and think about their family and how it shaped, supported and guided him.

Carlos Adames can picture the whole scene. So many brilliant brains gathered around one television set. So many pranksters who learned from the original—their father. He loved how they all took turns imitating Santiago’s deep, firm voice. He loves when they still do. And he knows they’re all watching the best athlete in the family. Him!

Adames would, ultimately, like to have around “10 or 11” children of his own. He cites the condition of the world now as a primary driver to limit his brood’s size.

Nice and small, right? He laughs again. He estimates his nieces-and-nephews count at somewhere between 110 and 125. One older brother (of many, many, many older brothers), Maximo, has 14 kids already. “He’s lapping me,” Adames says. “But there’s time.”